the orange light of the street lampsfloats inside, through the smeared windowsa pale boy asleep on my shoulderhis mouth open widesoft harmonic gurgle from his throatevery third heartbeat the sea of light floods the backseatsthe driver - just a static shadowinside the empty space, absolute silencesometimes a faint sound from the girl on the passenger seatthe mantra of the street empties my mindthe constant rolling on the street makes me sleepytemple leaned to the window glassbefore my eyes - night - like never before seenin a sea of shades of orange and darknessinterrupted by splinters of zivilisationas exchangeable as extinctablea lonesome supermarket under a harvest moona closed gas stationnear a village, car stopspassenger door open, somebody crawls outthrows up with a rattle and a retchand a wet-cold sound on the concreteI donÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t have to see thatI close my eyesstroke the head on my shoulderwait for the car to find the rhythm it had losttwo efforts to start the engine

through a see of houses as far as the eye can seeunder monochrome-skies in the stinking heat of the nightgigantic phantasmagories, mountains of shadowsthe music of the city raging in my earsheavy basses come from doorways covered with gelatinous membranssubsonic metropolis, child of the nuclear cloudthrough the contaminated streets, looking for Mariefor days, for weeksthe flickering asphalt in the midday sunand when I try to sleep on a bench at nightscratching breaths of air and cold eyesfrom the gully, lidless and watery yellowthe streets are screaming with madnessfree jazz from the cellar doorsthe streets are filled with lunaticsa young girl, she steals my purse and eats three coinsfanatics spit sermons in their St. VitusÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ Dancethe crying organ grinderjunkies and drunkards dragging themselves through the dirty streetswhere the asphalt bursts open ÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â€šÂ¬Ã…â€œ something oranichair growing out of the rugged concrete clodsin mere azur and crimson panic I run awaywithout knowing where to runfrom a basement flat mahlerÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢s tragic symphonyhalf-faint, I knock on the door covered up in rusta gathering of people in the twilightmen and women on splintery pewslonely drifters and lost figures, just like methe torn and patched up trousersthe dirty coulorless shirtsthey want to get away from this placethey split up, take the freight trainsto see if there is still life outside the cityif I want to come with them, there is stillenough roomon the trains to the westI tell them I have to find Marie firstmidnight at the shunting yardotherwise they are leaving without me

through the crazy streets in the darknessgetting ever more colourfull joyfull and wildtransfor to a collective-unconscious-faira beggarman in a soapbox with to pieces of wood to move forwardLisa comes out of a side street dancing like madher sweaty face wet from dew glows all overaround her forehead she wears a bracelet of starsthe polar star in her hair bleeds spectral lightthe Southern Cross on a pulsating green necklaceshe has to talk to meinside some desolate barroomshe has not been really happy since...I simply donÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t have the timebang some coins on the table and leavethe street underneath my feet beats and pulsates and grows narrowerAnna with her spotted umberellait always rains under it, even when thereÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢s sunshine outsideI hear a cracked gipsy fiddle playinga sad melody from the window across the streeteverything around me roates and bursts in a terpentine-stormraving feasts on the streetstwo young girls lying on a bed of strawthere are snowwhite wings growing out of their delicate shouldersone of them hugs me and buries mein a bed of angel downy featherswithout having to say one single wordthe other one weeps a tear of pale-blue fireit runs down her face and burns the palm of my handlike a beautiful glowing spectral memorialmausoleum for a memory that has been dead for yearsIÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ve finally arrived and everybody knows this is nowhere

0:49 churchyardcigarette-smoke in my hairlike a steelnet of mothÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢s wingsin the orange-red back light of the street lampsthat vomit the grief and burden of life onto our shouldersthat crazy girl with her whiskey bottle in her armsshe seems stuck somewhereshe wonÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t come backI ask her how she feelsÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“you got to know that, donÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t you?ÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Âshe smiles and disappearssuicide-green mist is coming up from the rivercreeps up my trousersyou are standing there leaning to the wallyou light a cigaretteyour tired, weary eyessilver gleaming shudders of moonlightand asbestos round your faceget caught on your coatdie in spirals of dirty blackon your cheek a dying starone more, one lessthe way you look at mefallen rain in a labyrinthof cracked paving stonesin the ash-pale moonlightlike a mosaic of flowing quicksilveryou look pretty in the cold lightpressed to the wet dirty wallblinding eyes in the monodarknessbig black centipedes keep creeping up and down my backyou canÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t look at meinstead, the faint rattle of your irregular breathinstead, the miserable hum of my voicefailing, again and againyour left leg kicking with the beatthe rolling stones ÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã‚Â¾gimme shelterÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“this record should be played louda warm wind blows through the streetsthe smell of decay and restaurant-airhouses silent and emptya sad looking youngsterloneley on the corner under a street lightimpatiently waiting for his manhad been busy latelycomes out of a dark entrancewalks in his directiongreets him, shakes his handstries to hand him the junk without being too obvioustwo elementary particles in neutral spaceit wonÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t take longand both of us are still standing herepressed into the wet-dark entrancea meter of safty distanceyou, dignified and beautifulwith tired eyes and a heavy heartme, slumped into a heap on the groundwith wet ass on the cold marble stairsnext week we are going to leaveand there is so much I still have to say to youthere is so much I canÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t say to youremembering things pastangelchildren dancing themselves to sleep to the beat of their heartssleep covered in downey featherson ragged sofas, parquet floors, bathtubslie drunk in the grass thatÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢s wet with dew under the guidance of the skytalk delirious of a life that is worth livingwould die to be dean moriarty and sal paradisespeak at orgiastic vegetetrean midnight-mealsof their latest projectsnever realise one of themput on dylanÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢s highway 61 and sink into the wavesquote poets and songwritersin their endless ravings against the world, against lifefeel like everything is falling apartunder the weight of the world when they sober upwhen they get up, sister morphine on the record playernobody there to help themnobody there to find themnot even the chance to find themselvestwo oÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢clock in the morning, stranded on the hills round the cityand one who hasnÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t moved for an hourstands up and asks: ÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“havenÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t i warned you?ÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚ÂÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“yes maybe weÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢re hidden by rags,but weÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ve had something theyÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ll never haveÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Âand youÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢re still standing there looking at meand you know what I want to tell youthe wet pavement is glistening strangelythe sound of the wires in the darker blue silence above youthe crimson mist around your headthe ashen cloud covering my facetwo young girls stumbling out of a bar togetherchiming laughter and ...the blondeÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢s face is dissolving into midairI donÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t know what to dobetween these millstones you call lifesay it loud, IÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢m lost and proudI stand up and listen to the sound of my bones, groaning wet and brittleÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“I fell in love with youÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚ÂÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“I knowÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚ÂÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“and you?ÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚ÂÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“noÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚ÂÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“okayÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚ÂÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“letÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢s goÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚ÂÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“okayÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚ÂÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€¦Ã¢â‚¬Å“thereÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ll be some party somewhereÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Âthere is always some party somewhere

All the things that you said, haunt me from time to time,waking up in a dream, rather than in my bed,Now IÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢m lost in confusion, I wish I was dead,Or left alone instead.

Now although you were right, I thought that was wrong,I should be older, wiser and feel so strong.Now IÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢m lost in a daydream, asleep in my bed,after the lies that you read.

You may have the golden spoon,but IÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢m sure itÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ll wear off you soon.The inscription reads MD, which must mean that itÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢s mine,and the fact that I eat with it, all of time.

I don't know what I should sayI don't know how I should feelI know that I want to say somethingbut I don't know what it ismidnight has just passedI'm still lying awakemy pillow smells like youin fact the whole room smells like youthe heat seems unbearablebut I don't open the windowwe will fallI know itit is just a question of timeuntil we fallsometimedefinetelyand although it would be easierto stop right nowwe're only just starting

IÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢m sorry that IÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ve confronted you with your lonlinessYou say that I shouldnÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t feel sorryafter all it is your lonlinessI cannot know how it is toÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â¦IÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ve spent half of my life withoutÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â¦and still words donÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t mean a thingthe moment you bite my throat ÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â€šÂ¬Ã…â€œ silencethe radio plays soft and you are talking even softer I canÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t understand youIÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢m too far away this timethe sun sets behind the rooftopswhen you sayI knew too wellwhen it is better to be quietthe inconvenient knowledgethat once more IÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ve been to busy dealing with myselfif you could repeatwhat youÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ve just saidwith your broken voice you ask meif you could kiss memy head on your chairyour face all blurredyour wet lips on my cracked lipslike two childrenholding each otherafraid to let losewe are the children of a deep sadnesswho know thatif they let gotheyÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ll be alone againwho know thateven in this very momentthey are alonethe both of ustogetherandall by ourselves

Her daughter,one that I wonÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢t forget,her golden strands sway about,in the wind, slowly swept.A mountain surely conquered,a path on which IÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ve stepped,seduction be our only bond,a boat I sure will crash.Many nights we sit or lie,hands-a-holding side by side,either way we look up and see,in the stars no pattern, theyÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢re just floating.Moon pie, no super for tonight,this will be our only light,as we rise and scarper to the sound of wolves,how-howling in the night.Crumble, tumble, boulder shakes the ground,we run and we hide, then head back into town,for miles we tried, but could not reach,get me out of this place, you feeling this heat?This mix of fear, anger and suspension,lets hold back, save this for later,IÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ll keep it in my jar,when weÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢re saved and safer from the caper.

"....the prototype I have constructed, which I have here, in this box, will completely revolutionise the catering industry. Sir, this machine has the capability to toast, butter, slice and serve an ENTIRE LOAF OF BREAD!"

"And what leads you to believe this?"

"My own exhaustive research."

"How did you conduct this research?"

"I carried out a survey. Of caterers."

"How many caterers?"

"One."

"One?"

"Yes sir."

"And you believe this to be 'exhaustive' research, do you?"

"I do."

"well, I'm sorry sir, but I do not."

"The caterer in question, sir, whom I asked to assist with my research, and whose data has proved invaluable, owns and operates a commercial premise which is situated a great distance from my home. A distance which took me more than 11 hours to travel. Upon returning home, sir, I can assure you; I was exhausted."

"That's exhausting research. Not 'exhaustive'."

"Can I show you my machine?"

"I would much prefer for you to leave immediately, and to never come here again."

"I bought a loaf, especially."

"I don't doubt that you did."

"And the biggest size of 'Utterly Butterly...."

(excerpt from "You Don't Have Get A right Laugh Working In The Patents Office" by Ian Ronco, Itchy Publishing Co.)

'fraid i've been living in the Gobi of Poetry as of late. everything i try is utter rubbish...and i'm starting to get concerned because this is one of my longest personal doldrums in writing. i'm hoping the new term at the uni will get my juices stirring again....heh...<evil grin>

i'm still sitting at the revision desk for lack of something better; currently focusing on "Neptune's Trinity" which i was told is a cornerstone of my current body. trouble is, it's seven parts; some parts long, some short (shorter ones are always harder for me to write)....so in a way it is akin to working on seven poems simultaneously. the latest draft from last week is the best yet because i detected a hidden theme that deserved a fabulously bold stanza in one part--which lengthened an already long part--which meant one of the short parts needed to forget a few words.... :ph34r: gad i make my life complicated!!

otherwise, orwell is right, yandee. never apologize to your audience--at least that's part of my philosophy. if your audience expects every single thing you write to be some epic monstrosity of creative genius, your audience is loopey.

I hope you don't think my dozy comments were referring to you, Yandee! They most certainly weren't! They weren't referring to anyone.

By and large, they'd have been better not made at all, I'm thinking. Me and my big stupid gob.

Sorry if you thought I was having a cheap dig, matey.

Well, don't worry. I didn't take the whole thing serious. You should never apologize for the things you've said and done. I was just joking.Plus: I love to tell everybody how bad my poetry is. Ginsberg did the same thing when he was young. Just telling the crowd what a shitty poet I am and still I am better than most of those fuckers. It makes me laugh!

BigSmallLittleTallYou know sometimes I look at the time,then I eat some slime, then write a line,make it rhyme and eat some limes.Monkeys swing from tree to tree,then they stop, and they turn and they look at me,one time yÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢know I got a haircut,then I sat down on your big butt,nice yÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢know, this drink of tea,get a biscuit come dip with me.

I call him up every now and then,I say hairy man where have you been?He makes weird noises like itÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢s a reply,I go to his house and spit in his pie,which he eats with a spoon but he leaves the room,then he comes back later with Christian Slater.Loves my mummy, loves my mummy,IÃƒÆ’Ã‚Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¡Ã‚Â¬ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢â‚¬Å¾Ã‚Â¢ll hit him later with a piece of paper,love your daddy, love your daddy,I have fingers, 5 on one knee.

A coin I'd spun, twenty years at very least before,I found it! There, lying on a ledge, perhaps a hundred feet below,The ground within the deep deep caves of Mercy.An idea I'd discarded, but wrote down, as well,I found, a few feet further down, the words unchanged,As if I'd never climbed out of the deepest cave of Mercy.

I was far too young to know how deep the depth of Mercy goes,Or all that happened deep below, and there's a chance I'll never know,For every visit finds me older, less wise and sturdy.The B669 still hums it's distant mile or so away,Newer and faster and I'm two foot taller,Chewing gum and adjusting my belt in the deep deep depths of Mercy.

The walk back to the road is shorter than it was,Back then, in the golden days of Mercy,And turning back, I wonder how I ever found the caves,When I was small and Mercy was enormous,And I would sit in there all day.

I'll purse it, aye the highway is my hope. His heart's not great that fears a little rope!